Night of Nyx (The Nightfall Chronicles 2.5) by Karpov Kinrade Page A
Authors: Karpov Kinrade
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powers. Zeniths who aren't tagged properly or registered.
He ignores it all in search of a bar that might house liquor strong enough to erase the shadows of his dreams.
A wooden sign sways in the gentle breeze, the symbol of the Teutonics painted in faded red ink that reminds Zorin of blood. The Knight's Inn is not an elaborate set-up by any means, which suits Zorin's mood just fine. The door swings open with a thud at a push from his palm, exposing the insides of a gluttonous tavern, complete with the stink of ale and smoke, and sweat and vomit from those who cannot hold their liquor. The scent of food, of boiled potatoes and meats and vegetables long past their prime, assaults Zorin's senses.
His sight is not hindered by the dismal lighting. Used to seeing in much darker places, Zorin scans the rugged groups of drinkers for the one face he knows will be here. He finds that face in the back, hidden by the shadows, sitting at a small wooden table alone, nursing a pint. Zorin passes the bar, where a young woman rushes to fill orders and pour drinks for her increasingly intoxicated clientele. She looks up as he enters and smiles in a way that makes Zorin pause. It's a genuine smile—authenticity in a world of posturing. He smiles back, his face stretching with the effort of kindness. The surprise on her face gives him pause. She doesn't expect kindness to be returned. She shouldn't have this much faith left in her twenties, nor should she be so jaded. It's an odd juxtaposition that bothers Zorin as he turns away from her grey eyes and pretty, but worn, face.
He sits in the seat opposite the man wrapped in a dark cloak whose wrists, still bound by broken chains, are hidden as he holds the pint to his lips and takes a long drink. The man looks up, his face showing many human years, but masking many more. "Zorin, I wasn't sure you'd come."
Zorin wasn’t sure either. "What are you doing here, Carter?” he asks. “You should not be here."
Carter reveals nothing with his face, but Zorin has known this man long enough to feel the burning energy humming beneath the calm exterior. "Is that any way to treat an old friend?" Carter asks.
"Is that what you are?" Zorin asks. "An old friend?"
Before Carter can respond, the bar maid arrives at their table. "What can I get you?" she asks Zorin. She has large grey-blue eyes and an Eastern European accent.
"I will have the strongest liquor you have," he tells her, studying her face.
She nods. "Rough day?"
"Da.” Zorin continues in Russian, saying “All days are rough, are they not?"
She smiles and replies in Russian. "They don't all have to be rough. It's all in our perspective. How do you speak Russian? Not many do anymore."
"I remember," is all he says. She raises an eyebrow but says nothing else as she walks away, the hem of her simple blue dress brushing against his leg as she does.
"You don't usually show your roots," Carter says. "You've been dreaming of her again, haven't you?"
Zorin narrows his eyes. "Never mind about my dreams. Why are you here?"
"To serve Nyx," Carter says in a soft voice. "To serve you."
"I do not need service."
Carter shakes his head. "You have not changed. All those years trapped in a box like a corpse did not soften you. That is good. Our kind needs your fire to rebuild."
"Is that why you saved me? To rebuild a Nephilim army?" The thought might have appealed to him once upon a time. Now, he's not so sure.
The eScreen above the bar plays a video of a Nephilim spiraling through the sky, surrounded by her silver wings. She tears apart a jet plane with her sword, then lands amongst a crowd of people as the aircraft crashes behind her. “The Nephilim have returned,” says the news reporter. “And this is their leader.” A pause. The camera stays on the girl as she rises. “She calls herself Nightfall,” continues the reporter. “And she claims to fight for justice. Yet, when has a Nephilim ever fought for more than power? We’ve reached
He ignores it all in search of a bar that might house liquor strong enough to erase the shadows of his dreams.
A wooden sign sways in the gentle breeze, the symbol of the Teutonics painted in faded red ink that reminds Zorin of blood. The Knight's Inn is not an elaborate set-up by any means, which suits Zorin's mood just fine. The door swings open with a thud at a push from his palm, exposing the insides of a gluttonous tavern, complete with the stink of ale and smoke, and sweat and vomit from those who cannot hold their liquor. The scent of food, of boiled potatoes and meats and vegetables long past their prime, assaults Zorin's senses.
His sight is not hindered by the dismal lighting. Used to seeing in much darker places, Zorin scans the rugged groups of drinkers for the one face he knows will be here. He finds that face in the back, hidden by the shadows, sitting at a small wooden table alone, nursing a pint. Zorin passes the bar, where a young woman rushes to fill orders and pour drinks for her increasingly intoxicated clientele. She looks up as he enters and smiles in a way that makes Zorin pause. It's a genuine smile—authenticity in a world of posturing. He smiles back, his face stretching with the effort of kindness. The surprise on her face gives him pause. She doesn't expect kindness to be returned. She shouldn't have this much faith left in her twenties, nor should she be so jaded. It's an odd juxtaposition that bothers Zorin as he turns away from her grey eyes and pretty, but worn, face.
He sits in the seat opposite the man wrapped in a dark cloak whose wrists, still bound by broken chains, are hidden as he holds the pint to his lips and takes a long drink. The man looks up, his face showing many human years, but masking many more. "Zorin, I wasn't sure you'd come."
Zorin wasn’t sure either. "What are you doing here, Carter?” he asks. “You should not be here."
Carter reveals nothing with his face, but Zorin has known this man long enough to feel the burning energy humming beneath the calm exterior. "Is that any way to treat an old friend?" Carter asks.
"Is that what you are?" Zorin asks. "An old friend?"
Before Carter can respond, the bar maid arrives at their table. "What can I get you?" she asks Zorin. She has large grey-blue eyes and an Eastern European accent.
"I will have the strongest liquor you have," he tells her, studying her face.
She nods. "Rough day?"
"Da.” Zorin continues in Russian, saying “All days are rough, are they not?"
She smiles and replies in Russian. "They don't all have to be rough. It's all in our perspective. How do you speak Russian? Not many do anymore."
"I remember," is all he says. She raises an eyebrow but says nothing else as she walks away, the hem of her simple blue dress brushing against his leg as she does.
"You don't usually show your roots," Carter says. "You've been dreaming of her again, haven't you?"
Zorin narrows his eyes. "Never mind about my dreams. Why are you here?"
"To serve Nyx," Carter says in a soft voice. "To serve you."
"I do not need service."
Carter shakes his head. "You have not changed. All those years trapped in a box like a corpse did not soften you. That is good. Our kind needs your fire to rebuild."
"Is that why you saved me? To rebuild a Nephilim army?" The thought might have appealed to him once upon a time. Now, he's not so sure.
The eScreen above the bar plays a video of a Nephilim spiraling through the sky, surrounded by her silver wings. She tears apart a jet plane with her sword, then lands amongst a crowd of people as the aircraft crashes behind her. “The Nephilim have returned,” says the news reporter. “And this is their leader.” A pause. The camera stays on the girl as she rises. “She calls herself Nightfall,” continues the reporter. “And she claims to fight for justice. Yet, when has a Nephilim ever fought for more than power? We’ve reached
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